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A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM (13) - ZaunköniG - 23.09.2007 A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM IV PLACE DE LA BASTILLE, PARIS HOW dear the sky has been above this place! Small treasures of this sky that we see here Seen weak through prison-bars from year to year; Eyed with a painful prayer upon God's grace To save, and tears which stayed along the face Lifted at sunset. Yea, how passing dear Those nights when through the bars a wind left clear The heaven, and moonlight soothed the limpid space! So was it, till one night the secret kept Safe in low vault and stealthy corridor Was blown abroad on gospel-tongues of flame. O ways of God, mysterious evermore! How many on this spot have cursed and wept That all might stand here now and own Thy Name. V ON A HANDFUL OF FRENCH MONEY THESE coins that jostle on my hand do own No single image: each name here and date Denoting in man's consciousness and state New change. In some, the face is clearly known,— In others marred. The badge of that old throne Of Kings is on the obverse; or this sign Which says, “I France am all—lo, I am mine!” Or else the Eagle that dared soar alone. Even as these coins, so are these lives and years Mixed and bewildered; yet hath each of them No less its part in what is come to be For France. Empire, Republic, Monarchy,— Each clamours or keeps silence in her name, And lives within the pulse that now is hers. VI TO THE P.R.B. WOOLNER and Stephens, Collinson, Millais, And my first brother, each and every one, What portion is theirs now beneath the sun Which, even as here, in England makes to-day? For most of them life runs not the same way Always, but leaves the thought at loss: I know Merely that Woolner keeps not even the show Of work, nor is enough awake for play. Meanwhile Hunt and myself race at full speed Along the Louvre, and yawn from school to school, Wishing worn-out those masters known as old. And no man asks of Browning; though indeed (As the book travels with me) any fool Who would might hear Sordello's story told. VII IN THE TRAIN, AND AT VERSAILLES IN a dull swiftness we are carried by With bodies left at sway and shaking knees. The wind has ceased, or is a feeble breeze Warm in the sun. The leaves are not yet dry From yesterday's dense rain. All, low and high, A strong green country; but, among its trees, Ruddy and thin with Autumn. After these There is the city still before the sky. Versailles is reached. Pass we the galleries And seek the gardens. A great silence here, Through the long planted alleys, to the long Distance of water. More than tune or song, Silence shall grow to awe within thine eyes, Till thy thought swim with the blue turning sphere. VIII LAST VISIT TO THE LOUVRE THE CRY OF THE P.R.B., AFTER A CAREFUL EXAMINATION OF THE CANVASES OF RUBENS, CORREGGIO,et hoc genus omne. NON NOI PITTORI! God of Nature's truth, If these, not we! Be it not said, when one Of us goes hence: “As these did, he hath done; His feet sought out their footprints from his youth.” Because, dear God! the flesh Thou madest smooth These carked and fretted, that it seemed to run With ulcers; and the daylight of thy sun They parcelled into blots and glares, uncouth With stagnant grouts of paint. Men say that these Had further sight than man's, but that God saw Their works were good. God that didst know them foul! In such a blindness, blinder than the owl, Leave us! Our sight can reach unto thy seas And hills: and 'tis enough for tears of awe. IX LAST SONNETS AT PARIS I CHINS that might serve the new Jerusalem; Streets footsore; minute whisking milliners, Dubbed graceful, but at whom one's eye demurs, Knowing of England; ladies, much the same; Bland smiling dogs with manes—a few of them At pains to look like sporting characters; Vast humming tabbies smothered in their furs; Groseille, orgeat, meringues à la crême— Good things to study; ditto bad—the maps Of sloshy colour in the Louvre; cinq-francs The largest coin; and at the restaurants Large Ibrahim Pachas in Turkish caps To pocket them. Un million d'habitants: Cast up, they'll make an Englishman—perhaps. II Tiled floors in bedrooms; trees (now run to seed— Such seed as the wind takes) of Liberty; Squares with new names that no one seems to see; Scrambling Briarean passages, which lead To the first place you came from; urgent need Of unperturbed nasal philosophy; Through Paris (what with church and gallery) Some forty first-rate paintings,—or indeed Fifty mayhap; fine churches; splendid inns; Fierce sentinels (toy-size without the stands) Who spit their oaths at you and grind their r's If at a fountain you would wash your hands; One Frenchman (this is fact) who thinks he spars:— Can even good dinners cover all these sins? III Yet in the mighty French metropolis Our time has not gone from us utterly In waste. The wise man saith, “An ample fee For toil, to work thine end.” Aye that it is. Should England ask, “Was narrow prejudice Stretched to its utmost point unflinchingly, Even unto lying, at all times, by ye?” We can say firmly: “Lord, thou knowest this, Our soil may own us.” Having but small French, Hunt passed for a stern Spartan all the while, Uncompromising, of few words: for me— I think I was accounted generally A fool, and just a little cracked. Thy smile May light on us, Britannia, healthy wench. XII ON THE ROAD TO WATERLOO: 17 OCTOBER (EN VIGILANTE, 2 HOURS) IT is grey tingling azure overhead With silver drift. Beneath, where from the green The trees are reared, the distance stands between At peace: and on this side the whole is spread For sowing and for harvest, subjected Clear to the sky and wind. The sun's slow height Holds it through noon, and at the furthest night It lies to the moist starshine and is fed. Sometimes there is no country seen (for miles You think) because of the near roadside path Dense with long forest. Where the waters run They have the sky sunk into them—a bath Of still blue heat; and in their flow, at whiles, There is a blinding vortex of the sun. XIV ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO SO then, the name which travels side by side With English life from childhood—Waterloo— Means this. The sun is setting. “Their strife grew Till the sunset, and ended,” says our guide. It lacked the “chord” by stage-use sanctified, Yet I believe one should have thrilled. For me, I grinned not, and 'twas something;—certainly These held their point, and did not turn but died: So much is very well. “Under each span Of these ploughed fields” ('tis the guide still) “there rot Three nations' slain, a thousand-thousandfold.” Am I to weep? Good sirs, the earth is old: Of the whole earth there is no single spot But hath among its dust the dust of man. XV RETURNING TO BRUSSELS UPON a Flemish road, when noon was deep, I passed a little consecrated shrine, Where, among simple pictures ranged in line, The blessed Mary holds her child asleep. To kneel here, shepherd-maidens leave their sheep When they feel grave because of the sunshine, And again kneel here in the day's decline; And here, when their life ails them, come to weep. Night being full, I passed on the same road By the same shrine; within, a lamp was lit Which through the silence of clear darkness glowed. Thus, when life's heat is past and doubts arise Darkling, the lamp of Faith must strengthen it, Which sometimes will not light and sometimes dies. XVIII ON LEAVING BRUGES THE city's steeple-towers remove away, Each singly; as each vain infatuate Faith Leaves God in heaven, and passes. A mere breath Each soon appears, so far. Yet that which lay The first is now scarce further or more grey Than the last is. Now all are wholly gone. The sunless sky has not once had the sun Since the first weak beginning of the day. The air falls back as the wind finishes, And the clouds stagnate. On the water's face The current breathes along, but is not stirred. There is no branch that thrills with any bird. Winter is to possess the earth a space, And have its will upon the extreme seas. XIX ASHORE AT DOVER On landing, the first voice one hears is from An English police-constable; a man Respectful, conscious that at need he can Enforce respect. Our custom-house at home Strict too, but quiet. Not the foul-mouthed scum Of passport-mongers who in Paris still Preserve the Reign of Terror; not the till Where the King haggles, all through Belgium. The country somehow seems in earnest here, Grave and sufficient:—England, so to speak; No other word will make the thing as clear. “Ah! habit,” you exclaim, “and prejudice!” If so, so be it. One don't care to shriek, “Sir, this shall be!” But one believes it is. |